Consequence and Acceptance
by Lone.L
Summary: Oneshot, revised. Now that he is gone, she hangs on every last memory of him…for love is, at once, unforgivingly cruel, remarkably powerful and truly binding. [EdWin]


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**Consequence and Acceptance**

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As the rain falls, so does her smile. 

As the days pass, so do her tears.

As the trees wither, so does her heart.

But he will never be forgotten.

The house is empty, as it has been for months. The dining room is a portrait of cleanliness, swept expertly and kept tidy down to the last particle of dust. The kitchen is spotless, the table unoccupied. Every corner is so perfectly made up that it seems surreal in nature. Her bedroom is quiet and dim; it is the sole indicator of any mess in the silent home. Pillows are strewn carelessly on the floor; blankets are ruffled and tossed aside. The mirror is dotted, the floors dirty. Whether the lights are kept off or do not work, it doesn't seem to matter much—because she hardly ever sleeps there anymore.

The leather of the lone couch is worn and faded. It rests against a wall in an obscure manner, neither attracting attention nor looking comfortable as if it is doing all it can to avoid being noticed. The sheets that lie on it shield one for whom such a phrase would be an adequate description.

On this dismal morning, the rain continues to fall outside.

A booming clap of thunder resounds, an eternal companion to the blinding flash of lightning. The sheets shuffle before being tossed aside. She quietly wills herself into a sitting position. Her head hangs; her eyes clench shut; her hands hang limply at her side. A tear escapes from the tight lids and hesitantly falls, gleaming as it takes a portion of her burden down with it. Images flood her mind, jockeying for position, vying to be the primary harbinger of grief. She shuts them out, shaking her head dismissively. Wonderful blond strands of hair flow through the murky air as she does so, painting a majestic portrait. Her body moves into a slightly more upright position, allowing her enviable figure to define itself with pride. Slowly, as if filtering out the regret, her lithe fingers unclench, spreading themselves out. Radiant azure eyes, more brilliant than the sky itself, finally open. In what little light there is, she is radiant.

Her undeniable beauty still shines through.

The front door opens, tossing in the loud pitters emitted from the downpour. She steps outside, declining to become drenched, yet enthralled with the possibility of watching the rain come down. But, inevitably, her wondrous lips crease in a frown.

For as the rain falls so does her smile.

She whispers his name innocently, naive shards of glimmering hope against an abysmal backdrop of despair.

No reply comes, and so she withdraws inside once more.

It is tradition now—the same ritual occurs each morning, or so it seems, because it seems that it is always raining these days. She tries with all her might, with all her will to forget, to erase the memories and ease the pain. As easy as it might sound to wipe out his existence now that he's gone, she knows that it will never be possible for her. Not in the least.

She passes each day like this, waking up on a faded couch and watching the world pass by while her inner turmoil goes on unnoticed.

Since they were young, her sole existence in life, it seemed, was to be their supporter. In all she did, her intentions were to grant them help and relief. She gave them friendship when they had no others. She gave them the truth when the truth was what they wanted to hear, and a falsified hope when it wasn't. She gave them her life when they needed it most.

And she gave them a family when all they had left was each other.

Every day, while she sits and waits, pondering their fates, she considers that she gave him companionship, friendship, and nothing more. What he had needed all along was love, the kind that few can give.

But it is too late now.

In the quiet, she bides her time during the day while the minutes stretch into hours and time passes. The downpour continues, isolating her small part of the world from the light of the sun. Puddles are starting to build up. Flowing rivers are manifesting in the roads. It seems that the rain is without end, much like the emptiness in her heart. He had been the fruit of her existence, occupying the space that was now a gaping hole. At times, she wonders how things ended up the way they did; she wonders, no matter how hard she tries, what he's doing now, who he's meeting, how his life is unfolding.

Once more, she steps outside. She does not know how long it has been, although the continuing rain makes it inconsequential.

This time, she avoids cover, instead letting the drops fall onto her from the heavens, drenching her bronze jacket and soaking through to the white blouse beneath. It is soothing in a way, cleansing in others. She cries again, opening the floodgates of her longing; her tears blend seamlessly into the rain. She weeps for him, wants him so badly, but eventually, the river of tears will dry up and wait to be released another time, just as it always does.

For as the days pass, so do her tears.

She states his name expectantly, waiting as she always has for the answer.

But an answer is never heard, and so she returns sluggishly to the house.

He has not been gone for long—less than a year, a span of just months. For her, however, one who longs so deeply for his smile, wants so badly to see his eyes light up at her presence, pleads with higher beings to let her hear his voice one more time, it is eternity. To her, it seems as if a tree has crumpled and died overnight each time she awakes. The world seems to be dying around her when, in a twisted reality, what is truly dying is her will to live in it. That vanished with him the moment she realized that it would most likely be farewell for good.

The couch welcomes her once more as she stretches out on it. She stares blankly in front of her, seeing not the usual surroundings, but his smiling face. She hears not the rain falling outside, nor the silence permeating the home, but his voice calling her name. She is numb to the furniture she rests on, instead feeling his embrace just as it was when he briefly returned.

This way, her dire ache for him to return to her is eased, if only momentarily.

The pain can only be accentuated when she admits that it is all her fault. He needed love.

She loves him.

With all her being, with all her soul, with all her heart, with all her existence...she loves him so deeply.

But it is too late.

She did not love him when she could have, long ago. Or, perhaps, she did, but was unable to show it. In hindsight, she realizes with a painful onset of racking grief that it could be one, the other, or both, and it wouldn't matter now. Now, there is nothing anyone can do, and that is why she lives in a hollow shell with the sole purpose of remembering him.

She can no longer love him.

All that is left is to cherish the memories.

As she lies on her side, her arms slowly extend, then coil, her fingers flexing. Her eyes flutter, and she leans her head forward, as if he is really there with her. If there were tears left, she would be crying in joy. She weaves a hand through his hair, another around his back, eagerly awaiting a passionate reunion.

Another clap of thunder jolts her from her fantasy, and she whimpers in frustration.

Long ago, she knows, the realization came that she would live her life out this way if he never came back to her. Having long ago resigned herself to that fate, she sighs and stands once more, awkwardly striding towards the welcoming front door. No matter how many times she stands outside and watches the rain fall, she never grows tired of it. It graciously allows her to momentarily exit her life and enter the life of the natural world around her, just as he always did with his alchemy. Anything to feel closer to him.

This time, she moves past the front steps, down the dirt road, all the way to the hill where they would so often play in their childhood, becoming thoroughly soaked in the process.

With a sad smile, she eyes a tree nearby. It used to be their refuge from the sun, a welcome to hot souls and weary minds. It is not winter, but the bark is dried and faded, and the leaves are beginning to fall. She knows that their tree is dying. But she can not bring herself to feel sad for the withering giant. Perhaps it is because, in a way, she can no longer feel.

For as the trees wither, so does her heart.

She calls his name desperately, overflowing with excitement at the response she knows he'll give.

But that response never echoes back, and so she falls to her knees in anguish, letting despondency and dejection take over. For several minutes, she remains like that—bent forward on her knees, hands gripping the soil beneath her, body racking with sobs. Her love for him is bottomless; not having him beside her is the ultimate torture. Desperation is clawing on the edge of her senses, eroding her mind. But she understands. He has something to accomplish that is bigger than her or her world. His life is important, and its purpose can't be served standing beside her. She didn't adore him, love him, shower him with heartfelt affection while she could, and this is her punishment. She reaches that conclusion and soon returns to her feet, turning to go back inside.

She will never forget him. She will never cease loving him. In her mind's eye, she sees those fierce golden eyes gleaming as they meet hers, his blonde ponytail streaming in the wind, a calm smile on his face. Her imagination is littered with ever-playing scenarios ending in a jovial reunion and a happy, long-awaited life. Alas, despite these fantasies, she is also slowly grounding herself in harsh reality.

She finally understands that her fate is her fate, and she cannot change it. With that understanding comes acceptance.

The rain slows, but does not stop, as the deafening chaos of the downpour devolves to the soothing lullaby of an afternoon shower.

A sad smile escapes her lips; a short breath flutters off into the wind.

Farther along the dirt path, a silhouette with flowing hair stumbles towards her unannounced.

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**A/N: **Yes, very nice, very nice. I finally get to write with some inspiration again. Last night, I was reading an interesting story dealing with Ed dying and Winry's grief, and I came across a line that really hit me hard—"she didn't love him when she should have"—and a huge light just went on my mind, inspiring this story. The ending I purposely left up to reader interpretation, so think long and hard about that. There are many little details in this one that really help the mood of the piece, and I hope everyone can notice and point them out. This one was fun to write, but depressing to read. So, it's obviously a bittersweet feeling. 

I just can't seem to tear myself away from the oneshot thing lately. It's not bad, I just felt it worth noting.

**EDIT: **I made some edits to the last few paragraphs, because after looking at it multiple times I realized something I could add.

**EDIT II: **Another re-read, another edit. Last time, I swear!

**LL**


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